Paws
by Darth Gilthoron
Summary: What is a dog with hat and nightstick doing in the Rue de l'HommeArmé? Whose is the puppy? And what will Valjean have to say to all this?


_To Dern, my faithful co-author._ _Blame AmZ (and Ithilmir, who started this). Happy Birthday. )  
Thanks to Asharak for beta-ing and generally goofing around._

-.-.-

The stairs creaked gently under the steps of heavy boots hurrying up past two landings and into a corridor, then the sound of a key turned in a lock was heard. A door was swung open and moments later shut again with some violence, and the key turned once more.

Inspector Javert let himself fall back against the door, closing his eyes for a moment as his hands clenched into fists. Calm down. Calm down. No need to have a fit. Just calm down, curse you!

With a sigh of frustration, he righted himself again, kicked off his boots and flung his coat over the back of a chair. He knew that there was no point in fuming, but the trouble was that this realization did nothing at all to keep him from fuming.

You're going to get yours, Valjean. I swear you will.

After I've had a decent night's sleep, that is. Or rather, what's left of the damn night.

It was an odd time to come home, neither night shift time nor day shift time.

And an odd time altogether, considering what had happened during those past hours… I let him go. I actually let him go. I mean, I bloody _let him go_.

It was too much to fully comprehend.

So he might as well go to sleep straight away, it would keep him from ruminating. He struggled out of his uniform, throwing it all over the chair where the coat had already landed more or less neatly. Best to get out of this quickly. Out of all of this. Or else… or else he might wake in the middle of the night in a rather awkward situation and spend some time struggling around before he managed to summon up enough concentration to put things right again.

Everything had its advantages as well as its disadvantages.

Plucking the ribbon out of his hair, he hurriedly crawled under the blanket and wrapped it around himself tightly. It was not very warm in his room, so standing around naked was not all too pleasant. Soon the sheets would be warm and comfortable, once he had spent a little time warming them up… soon… soon…

Oh, don't be so pathetic!

Just then his stomach gave a gentle rumble, and he growled in frustration. He had not eaten for what felt like an eternity, except a bit of bread he had hastily wolfed down, that last bit that had been left from earlier on, when he had returned from the barricade to change back into his uniform, and that hardly counted.

Even if there had been more, he would hardly have managed to eat it, he had been too agitated. And all because of Valjean.

A familiar tickling sensation started wandering over his skin, but he clenched his teeth and willed it to go away. Why did it always have to happen to him? Once he was in a state of strong emotion, be it hate or fury or happiness or grief, he was in danger of… slipping.

Curse you, Valjean. Curse you forever.

Shutting his eyes tightly, he tried to sleep, but sleep would not come. For some time he lay tossing and turning, his thoughts spiralling and swirling in his head, trying to ignore his empty stomach as best as he could. He was exhausted, but still widely awake.

Perhaps he should go and find himself something edible? No, no point in that, those shops which had remained open despite the riots had surely closed long ago. There really was no option but going to sleep now, and get up early for a large breakfast before he had to report back on duty.

And fall asleep at his desk, most likely. It had happened once before, and it had been embarrassing. At least it had been Inspector Mavereux who had found him and not one of his subordinates, but it had been bad enough. Because whoever would have found him, for his own bad conscience it would not have made any change at all. This way, the only other who knew about the incident was Mavereux, but _he_ knew, and this was what mattered.

"Seriously," Mavereux had said as Javert had blinked at him drowsily, too drowsy even to forbid him to tousle his hair ever again or to even think of tousling it, "you need to get yourself a girl. Someone to have an eye on you."

"You know I can't," he had replied, and Mavereux had nodded to that. After all, he knew. He and Javert shared a very well-kept secret, the secret which was the reason for all of Javert's clothes piled up on the chair currently. Mavereux had caught him another time, too, so to say, but he had taken it with surprising calm. In the end, after he had gotten over his initial confusion, he had even found it funny. And very useful, too. But would others, if they found out? Was there any girl who would?

And to be exact, Javert thought, Mavereux was right. It could be put to some use, whatever people might think. Now, for example. To find himself something to eat.

No. He would end up digging through the garbage, and that was degrading.

Maybe not, if it was done with style.

Yes.

No.

Yes.

No.

Damn!

Except…

Kicking off his blanket, Javert sat up and got out of bed, heading for the bookshelf. There, behind a battered edition of the Code Napoléon… He fished out what suspiciously looked like a leather dog's collar with a badge dangling from it and put it loosely around his neck. Then he picked his nightstick from the pocket of his discarded coat and, after a moment's consideration, placed his hat on his head.

Very well. I'm coming dressed for dinner, old friend.

He went to unlock the door, and had he not held the nightstick between his teeth, he would have whistled to himself. This was a good joke, and it would take his mind off things.

He peered out carefully, then hastily slipped out into the corridor and locked the door behind him. Nobody there. Good. If someone now saw him, it would prove utterly embarrassing, to say the very least.

Yes indeed. You're standing in the corridor stark naked except for your hat and a dog's collar. And a nightstick between your teeth. You're a complete idiot.

Blame Mavereux. He asked me out for dinner.

Javert grinned to himself as he hooked the key to the collar, right behind the badge. In a way, Mavereux had.

So. Ready. Now for the evening robe…

He briefly closed his eyes and concentrated, and immediately the tickling sensation from before spread out over his whole body. Hair shot out of his skin, and he crouched over, only to land on four legs. In a matter of seconds, a large, dark, somewhat shaggy dog stood where the inspector had been.

The dog held a nightstick between its teeth, was balancing a hat on its pointy ears, and wore a collar with a badge bearing the coat of arms of the city police. It was an actual police dog.

Javert silently trotted down the stairs, his claws making soft noises on the steps, wagging as he went. The tail was something he still found unusual, so he normally moved it around a bit in the beginning to get used to it. As he reached the front door, he stood on his hind legs, careful not to lose the hat, and pushed it open. Luckily they always forgot to lock it, or else this might be a lot more bothersome.

Very well. Out for a walk.

Sniffing the air, he could pick up nothing except the usual stench of the city's backstreets. Yes, and a cat seemed to have passed a little time ago. He could not really tell how he knew, except that his nose sent a signal to his brain that got translated all by itself. It was as if in the middle of his animal mind, his human mind still remained and had the animal mind explain everything to it. He stayed himself, just with some additional senses… and a few odd patterns of behaviour he could not quite suppress.

The door fell shut behind him, and he set out on his stroll through the nightly city.

Mavereux found it very entertaining, that peculiar gift of shape-shifting. Javert himself found it peculiar mainly, and perfectly ridiculous, but part of him still appreciated those strolls on four legs. Part of him considered them quite a joke.

Mavereux considered them so much of a joke that he had bought Javert a collar and occasionally led him around on a leash. It was absolutely childish, but Javert played along from time to time, especially since Valérie liked his canine form so much. One might make a few sacrifices to get his ears scratched by Valérie. What a shame she was Mavereux's girl already.

And this was where he was heading: to his colleague's place, to scratch at the door and whine pathetically, to be admitted by Valérie, who would appear at the door with tangled hair and in a white nightshirt… Javert raised his hackles to a predatory grin. And she would let him in, go on at some length about the poor hungry dog, scratch his ears, ruffle his fur, hug and cuddle him and practically fall over herself with delight when he rolled over onto his back to have his stomach patted. While Mavereux would stand behind her and give him a very, very dirty look. But what did he care? Mavereux could glower at him as much as he liked. It was all his own fault he had first taken him home and introduced him as his squad's official police dog, and it was his own fault as well to have allowed said dog to poke in his nose any time he liked.

_Any_ time, yes. And that includes every single hour of the night, old friend.

Of course Valérie knew him in his human shape as well. He was the man who worked with her beloved, after all. She saw him quite regularly, though usually briefly, and he always was very polite, at times quite charming even, but she would certainly never connect him with that dog she liked so much. Nobody would.

Except Mavereux, of course, but that was an entirely different matter.

The night was cool and quiet around him, and the streets were mostly deserted at this time, except for the occasional drunkard staggering and swaying along, or lying facedown in the gutter and snoring. Javert gave a snort, which sounded a little odd coming from a dog. One had to be very drunk indeed to even consider a pillow like that.

Only a few more hours, and dawn would touch the sky in the east with a thin line of turquoise. The sun rose early at this time of year.

By a lamppost, gleaming dully in the lantern's pale, dim light, he stopped briefly and lifted a leg. There were some canine habits he just could not quite suppress. The centre of his mind was human, but the surrounding areas, those ruled by his lower instincts, were very doggish indeed.

And there was an interesting-smelling pile of garbage, just across the street…

No! No, definitely! He would _not_ search for food in the garbage. Never. He was a policeman, not a street mongrel.

Instead he lifted his leg again as he reached the corner. A policeman was allowed a territory, after all.

Yes, that was what Mavereux always said. He found it all very funny, of course.

When he thought of his colleague's remarks now, he felt amusement as well as a little anger. Sometimes it was good to share his secret with someone else, sometimes he would rather keep it to himself. Having someone knowing about it made him vulnerable.

At least Valjean did not know about this.

Curse that bloody Valjean.

He felt the tickling running over him again as his rage returned, and he did his best to fight it down. He did not intend to find himself standing in the street naked any time soon.

Suddenly he stopped short, pricking up his ears and shifting his head just in time for the hat not to fall off. What was it he had just heard? Standing frozen, he listened quietly. Yes, there it was again: a soft whine, coming from just ahead…

Resuming his pace, he made his way towards it, sniffing as he went. There it was, the source of that pathetic little sound, smelling of fear and blood: pressed to the wall crouched another dog.

It was a puppy, small and brown and furry and with floppy ears, licking a wound in its side. It wore a tricolour ribbon tied around its neck like a collar, with something, perhaps a name, scribbled on it, but he could not quite make it out. As it noticed the presence of the other dog, it raised its small head, its tongue still hanging out, and snuffled. Then it crouched even lower, whimpering pitifully.

Javert approached slowly. So I frighten you, do I? Poor little bugger. He did not keep a pet of his own, but he generally liked animals. They did not commit crimes, for one thing. And you always knew what you were at with them. When he encountered a stray dog or cat in the street, he would sometimes throw them a bit of bread or a biscuit if he had any on him. After all, he knew perfectly well what it was like having four legs, a tail and too much hair.

The puppy did not move, just looked at him out of large, scared eyes. To soothe it a little, he wagged lazily, then began to sniff it. It was one of those things he could not help when he was in canine shape, when he met someone new he always had to spend some time considering the scent.

Their noses almost touched, and the little thing was now snuffling in turn. There was something odd about its smell, but he could not quite put a finger on it. It smelled like a dog should, a young and rather unwashed male apparently, but at the same time… there was something wrong with that scent. It smelled of dog while at the same time it did not.

What had that silly little thing been rolling around in?

Suddenly there was a moist sensation at his nose. The puppy had started licking his muzzle trustingly. At the same time, its short tail began hitting the pavement weakly as it wagged.

So, now you like me.

His canine instincts took over. He dropped his nightstick on the sidewalk, careful to ensure it would not roll into the gutter, and soon he found himself licking the puppy's ears. It was something he did not normally do, except with Valérie ("Look, Henri, he's trying to give a kiss! Oh, the sweetheart!" – "You don't lick people's faces! Stop it right now! Bad dog!"), but who would ever know if he licked an affectionate puppy just a bit in a dark back alley?

The puppy put a paw on his nightstick curiously, then decidedly picked it up with its teeth, got to its feet, looked up at him and wagged expectantly.

So you want to play, eh? Hide the stick? Chase after the stick? Fetch the stick? You want to play with the baton of authority, you little rascal?

The puppy looked up at him hopefully. It really was rather tiny, though it was not a baby anymore.

And suddenly he had an idea. Very carefully, he picked up the little fellow by the scruff of his neck. The puppy gave a small yelp of surprise, but kept very still, its short legs stretched out stiffly.

Mavereux, I'm bringing a friend.

Valérie would love him for it. And while Mavereux would tend to the little thing's wound, he could have her all to himself in her white nightshirt… He almost drooled on the puppy's neck at that thought.

It was a blessing that at least he did not start drooling over she-dogs… though occasionally he felt a bit of odd interest in some, which was plainly embarrassing. Yet he was glad to say that he would forget any she-dog over Valérie.

Just don't you lose my nightstick, little one. Drop it and I'll drop you. Drop it in the gutter and I'll bite you.

Carrying the furry little foundling along, he trotted on.

He really was lucky that Mavereux liked dogs so much, and that he possessed a total lack of superstition as well as a good sense of humour. Otherwise, that night back then might have been a disaster.

They had been out on a mission with their men, both freshly appointed inspectors, and they had been placed in a narrow room in an inn together, while the rest of the men had taken up the stables. It had not been very comfortable, and Javert had started to suspect that the stables might be more pleasant after all. He had been rather angry when he had fallen asleep…

Which had been a bad thing. Anger always created the tendencies for slips in shape, for whatever reason. In the middle of the night he had woken as a dog, tangled in his own shirt, and he had started fidgeting around wildly, panicking because he could not manage to summon up his concentration to turn himself back again…

_He kicked around him, yapping with frustration at all that fabric constricting him and holding him enmeshed. There was a tearing sound as one of his front legs could move a little more freely…_

_Concentrate, damn you, concentrate!_

_His tail was caught in his underpants, and he was lying on it, which felt rather unpleasant. No chance of getting it out._

_Just concentrate! Concentrate…_

_At last the tickling ran over him, and he found himself in his normal shape once more, the blanket thrown back as he lay on his back panting, his shirt torn from his left shoulder. He should have taken it off, he thought as he lay there, staring up at the shadow-veiled wooden beams of ceiling blankly. This had happened to him before, after all. He should have known better._

_And then he realized that Mavereux was leaning over him, long, untidy strands of fair hair hanging into his forehead. And that he had been doing so for some time. "Are you alright?"_

It was all he had said. He had witnessed the transformation, but this had been his only comment at first.

"_Yes," Javert muttered, wishing for this to be nothing but a nightmare. "Yes, I am."_

_There was a moment of silence, in which he tugged his shirt back up over his shoulder. There were a few buttons missing, it seemed, as well as a couple of tears. At least his pants had not fallen off or been torn in half, despite the tail taking up considerable space. Then Mavereux said, "Did you really just… you know… turn into a dog?"_

Later on he had wondered whether there would have been any use in denying it, but on this night the thought had not even occurred to him. Maybe it had been his natural honesty. Maybe he had been glad, in a way, that he could speak of it at last.

_He sighed softly. "Yes, I'm afraid I did."_

"_For how long have you been able to do it?"_

_Javert shrugged, as far as this was possible when lying on his back. "As long as I can remember."_

"_How is it done?" Was it eagerness in Mavereux's voice? Hungry curiosity?_

_To be honest… he had no idea. "I really don't know. I just concentrate, and then it happens."_

"_Can you do it again?"_

It was a good thing that Mavereux was no superstitious man, indeed. For if he were, he might have started screaming about werewolves or something similar. This way, he just saw something he had no answer to and asked about it, just like he would ask about a crime he had to investigate.

_Again he sighed, sitting up reluctantly. Did he have any choice? "I'll have to take off my clothes, though."_

_In the semi-darkness of the room, a light suddenly flared up as Mavereux lit a candle. In the sudden flickering light, his grin became strangely grotesque, like a mischievous goblin's. "Well, feel free. It's not as if there are any women around."_

In the end, they had spent considerable time plainly fooling around. When Javert had woken the next morning, he had felt considerably embarrassed about it. God, Mavereux had actually thrown him his own nightstick and told him to fetch! And he had done so! And he had barked and whined and panted and howled and made all kinds of dog noises possibly imaginable, and rolled on the ground and scratched his ears with his own hind leg and taken a begging pose and extended a paw to Mavereux… He still raised his hackles slightly at the thought of it. But at the same time, he inwardly wanted to snicker.

The puppy gave a soft whine, and he attempted to lick the back of its neck while still carrying it, which was practically impossible. It probably was in pain, poor little bugger. But it still was some way to go to the place where Mavereux lived, the little furball would have to wait until then.

And then, suddenly, he stopped dead as he read the sign at the corner he had just been about to pass: Rue de l'Homme-Armé.

Valjean. Bloody Hell.

For the second time this night, he stopped at this place. He stopped and pondered, growling gently to himself. Valjean. That accursed Valjean, over and over again. Would he never be free of him?

Again the tickling began, and he forced it away just in time. The idea of standing under Valjean's window naked with a puppy between his teeth was absolutely appalling.

Just as he thought so, a movement caught his eye, a little to the left, by the very entrance at which he had left that damned thief alone and then went on his way, unbelievable as it was. His nostrils quivered, but the smell of the puppy covered most other scents. Yet he did not need his sense of smell to recognize the man leaning against the wall apparently enjoying the cool night air. His eyes were more than enough.

_Him_. Again. Javert growled throatily, fighting to steady his canine shape. He had to leave, and as fast as possible. He could not stay in this man's proximity for long, for danger of any slips in shape. And he did not want to, not at all.

The puppy whimpered and twitched weakly in the tight grip of his jaws. If it was because of the pain in its side, or because he had scared his little friend, he could not tell. All he knew was that he could not go on like that any longer. He was growing tired too.

Perhaps he could drop the little thing off into Valjean's lap as a bit of revenge and let him tend to it?

On the other hand, how could he be sure Valjean would not harm the fuzzy little fellow?

Well, why should he? Valjean had not even harmed _him_, for heaven's sake!

"Here, doggy."

Blast him, is he talking to me?

"Come on, come to me. Come to Uncle Jean."

Uncle Jean, eh? I'll yet get you, jailbird, wait and see…

"Yes, there's a good doggy. Come here. Come to me."

What are you holding out your hand for? I don't mean to sniffle it, and I certainly won't lick it. Doggy? Hah!

"Yes, there's a good dog. That's a sweet puppy you have there."

Oh, damn, I'm going towards him! I'll stop right here. And I won't move another inch. Oh, no. You can wait for the nice doggy to come to you 'til Hell freezes over.

Right on clue, the puppy gave a little whine that had an oddly questioning sound to it, and the smile on Valjean's hard features even broadened. Immediately the stupid little thing started fidgeting. Javert growled again, but the sound was muffled by all the fur between his teeth. Fine, you ungrateful little brat, if you want to land in a damn convict's care, then it's your choice. Your own fault. Trotting towards Valjean decidedly and with as much dignity as he could muster, Javert put the puppy down at the man's feet, careful not to wag or anything like that. He was not a friendly dog. No, not at all.

Of course the puppy started wagging madly straight away, and as Valjean squatted down to stroke its head, it trustingly offered him the nightstick.

No! Not my nightstick! Not my bloody baton of authority! You damn stupid fuzzball, you _don't _give nightsticks to convicts!

"Oh, what do we have here?" Scratching the faithless whelp's floppy ears, Valjean eyed what he had been given. Then his gaze wandered back to Javert. "And why does your mother wear a hat on her head?"

_Mother?_ I beg your pardon! Are you blind or what, you bloody con? My fur's really not _that_ long, you know…

"Oh, you're hurt! You poor thing. I think I'll take you upstairs. Poor little doggy. Will your mother allow it, do you think?"

Don't talk to the pup like an imbecile, man. He can't understand you anyway. And _don't consider me female again, curse you_! I really don't want to lie on my back in the street so you finally get it. I don't mean to make my fur dirty just because you're blind.

Picking up both puppy and nightstick, Valjean headed for the door and pushed it open, and Javert followed, growling softly. _Give me back my bloody nightstick!_

"Here, girl. In you go. Yes, there's a good girl. I won't harm your baby." And a large hand came out of nowhere to pat his back.

Don't you _dare_ do that ever again!

I should bite him. I really should.

Bet he tastes foul, though.

Well, at least he had a bath, it seems. He was reeking beyond imagination when we last met.

On that thought, that bloody staircase is overly dusty and smells of mould. Bah.

Hmm, there's worse it could smell of, though.

Valjean allowed Javert to slip in through a door, then closed it behind the tip of his tail. Still in his arms, the puppy had already started licking his hand.

Call that loyalty, brat? If I ever get you on your own, I'll _give_ you loyalty!

It was a small, narrow place, the flat Jean Valjean inhabited, but at least it did not smell of anything unpleasant. No room for racing around or chasing a ball, but –

No, there would be _no_ racing and playing. None, absolutely.

"Here, girl, see what I've got for you." A large bowl of water was shoved under his nose. At first Javert wanted to ignore it, but he was thirsty, and so he dipped his tongue into it. His hat slipped off, but he did not mind it very much, not at the moment. Soon he was drinking noisily, though a little bit embarrassed about it, while Valjean was cooing over the puppy quite ridiculously and tending to its wounded side.

At last he put it down beside Javert again, and at least he had the decency to return the nightstick, too. Javert hurried to put a paw on it. Mine! Mine alone!

In the meantime, the puppy's pink tongue had already found its way into the water bowl. The name written on the funny tricolour collar was Gavroche, Javert now saw. What an odd name for a dog, but people gave their dogs all kinds of names.

That was, if that little thing had any kind of people at all to look after it. Javert tended to doubt it.

And it seemed that Valjean had decided to concentrate on him now, for he squatted down beside him and began scratching his ears before Javert had the time to bare his teeth. The impertinence of it! Just digging his nasty convict fingers into his fur! And he was no good at scratching at all, nobody could scratch his ears like Valérie!

As soon as possible he would be on his way again, and heading towards Mavereux's place.

Valjean was stroking the side of his neck now, murmuring to him gently. "You're a pretty girl, you know that? A very pretty girl."

Gnnnrrrgh! I'll strangle you! Or rather, I'll _bite_ you!

"And what's that badge you're wearing? You're…" Here he stopped suddenly. "A police dog?" It gave Javert some satisfaction to hear the sudden uncertainty in Valjean's voice. "Hopefully not on duty, girl?"

Makes you nervous, eh? Serves you right.

"Well, probably not," Valjean decided. "Might be just some joke, that collar someone put around your neck. Just like hat and nightstick."

_Joke_?

"Funny girl, are you?"

Now this was too much. Definitely. Javert rolled over onto his back. Here, take a closer look, and don't you dare call me girl one more time, or I'll chew your face off, I really will!

To his indignation, Valjean started laughing. "So you want your belly stroked, do you? Yes, there's a good girl…"

No _no_ NO! Don't do it! DON'T! But it was too late already. Valjean had begun rubbing the fur at his chest straight away, and he was doing it so enthusiastically that there was no chance for Javert to fight down his dog instincts, especially since he had to concentrate on suppressing that accursed tickling sensation at the same time. His front legs started pawing the air all of their own accord. He _liked_ having his chest and stomach rubbed, he liked it way too much. As long as it was Valérie who did it, he had no problem with his overly undignified natural reaction, but a former convict doing it…

"Ah, you like that, do you?" Valjean kept rubbing, laughing at Javert's quickly-moving paws, moving further down his ribcage. "My daughter is going to love you two."

Your daughter, eh? Yours and that whore's, most likely. Though you did not sound like it was your own child back at Montreuil. Regretted the fact she wasn't, perhaps.

Suddenly he sighed. "Yes, she'll like you. Perhaps she'll think less about the boy then. Especially… especially if he dies." His hand slowed, and finally Javert managed to stop his frantic pawing. "You see, I don't know if I want him to die. It's wrong to wish death to anyone, but if he lives… she'll marry him, and she'll leave me."

Boy? What boy? That boy from this evening? That lad Marius? Oh, he looked pretty dead to me, don't worry about him.

"Perhaps it will hurt less if I keep you." His voice sounded strangely strangled now, as if he were on the verge of tears. "Perhaps we can make a life together, you and me and your little one. Oh, look here, he's asleep already."

Javert craned his neck. Indeed, the puppy had curled up beside them and was snoring softly, his little head on his front paws. Very well. He would leave the little bugger here, if it made Valjean happy to get a pet in exchange for that girl he had seemingly adopted.

Perhaps he felt sorry for the man. Just a little bit.

"And as for you, girl – no, wait a minute. You're not a girl after all."

Ah, so you got the message at last? Well spotted.

"Never mind. You'll be my boy then, won't you? My funny furry boy. I'll yet have to find a name for you." Before Javert could get back up again, Valjean had started rubbing his stomach once more, but this time a little lower down. No! No! Not the middle of the stomach! But there was no helping it, already all of his legs were in the air, scrabbling frantically. God, no! This was ridiculous! And that bloody con was laughing at him all the time! But there was nothing he could do; his canine reflexes were just too strong.

As Valjean stopped it at last, he lay on his back panting, feeling utterly ashamed for suffering an escaped convict to stroke his stomach. And having to amuse a whore's daughter once morning came… No. He would never fall that low. He would go and scratch at the door now. He would…

What was that absolutely delicious smell? Not perhaps…? No, this was too good to be true!

Once again Valjean squatted down beside him. "There, boy, have a sausage."

No. I'm not eating a con's food.

But it's just a sausage.

And he's Jean Valjean.

Yes, but it's a _big_ sausage.

That doesn't change anything.

Yes it does.

But –

Oh, damn it all. I'm hungry!

Sitting up on his haunches, Javert actually fell as low as taking a begging pose. He just had not eaten properly for too long.

Valjean laughed and patted his head. "Here, boy, take it."

Javert accepted it gratefully and greedily devoured it. Then he once again approached the almost-empty bowl of water. He felt better now, definitely.

And tired. Very, very tired. He might fall asleep on the spot.

Which he certainly wouldn't do in Valjean's presence.

Though the rug looked quite cosy, actually…

-.-.-

Despite the late night, Valjean woke early the next morning. For a couple of minutes he just lay on his back, trying to recall all the events of the night. Then he got out of bed. The dogs would want to go for a walk, probably.

Before the rug in the corridor, he stopped short, staring. The puppy lay just where he had left it, curled up and with its head on its paws. But where the large dog had been…

Javert. On his rug. Sleeping peacefully. And not wearing a thing, except for a leather dog's collar with a badge on it.

Well, that explained quite a lot.

For several seconds Valjean just gazed, thunderstruck. Then he sighed, fetched a blanket and spread it over the sleeping inspector. Javert stirred and muttered something, but did not wake. He must have had a rough night, poor fellow. Maybe it was best to let him sleep.

Until Cosette woke up, at least. And the Toussaint woman shouldn't see him either, especially if he had nothing on.

Which meant that he would have to find a few items of clothing before he went back to bed. Some that were too large for him, if he could find any. Yes, there was one shirt, in particular…

So he had almost adopted Javert. Funny, that. Funny in a very twisted way. Well, there was no large dog for him, then, but a smaller one still…

Before he turned back, he hesitated, mustering the rolled-up ball of brown fur that was the puppy critically. What if this one, too…? Well, Gavroche was more a dog name than a boy's name, in his opinion, but one could never know… He bent down, picked the sleeping creature up and carried it back to his narrow room, where he placed it on the bed and partially pulled the blanket over it, just in case.

Confused as he was, there was one thing he was certain about: He would not find anything surprising too soon. Not anymore.


End file.
